Small and Slow

Three in the morning

and the siren came

small and slow,

like someone's

ordinary Tuesday

turning into

something else.

I lay there

tracking it

through the dark—

down Fifth,

maybe onto Grant,

toward the hospital

or toward

nothing.

Whose life

was changing

while I was

awake and

listening?

The siren got

smaller.

Then it

stopped.

I kept waiting

for it to start

again,

like it wasn't

real unless

it kept

sounding.

But the street

was quiet.

The dark

was complete.

Someone was

somewhere now,

alive or not,

and I had

no way of

knowing,

no way of

finishing

the story

the siren

started.

I lay there

until dawn,

listening for

what wouldn't

come back.